


Where the Heart Is

by roktavor



Series: Tumblr Prompt Requests [2]
Category: Bakuten Shoot Beyblade
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Banter, Denial of Feelings, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Mild Language, Sarcasm, Slice of Life, Snippets, Team Dynamics, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 09:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15070616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roktavor/pseuds/roktavor
Summary: It takes Giancarlo long enough to realize exactly what home is to him.“You guys are the worst – I don’t know why I hang out with you.”





	Where the Heart Is

**Author's Note:**

> Soup sent Majestics + coming home, from a tumblr prompt list, and I'm very sure I stretched the interpretation too far, probably, uh...turned out as more of an underlying theme? It also wound up centered around Giancarlo, tho the others are definitely a prominent part. Gian is just the best vessel for this kind of thing??
> 
> Anyway, I had too much fun here, and there's no real plot to this.

“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?” Giancarlo asks the entirety of the team’s private bus. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have to force-start conversations via an icebreaker like this, but the atmosphere is too tense and quiet and he can’t relax.

“Sleep.” Surprisingly, Ralf is the first to answer. He never lifts his nose from his book – which is probably something boring and stuffy, direct from the Jurgens family library.

“You’re such an old man,” Johnny jibes, and there’s that familiar bite to his tone that suggests he’s in the mood to punch something – which is understandable, given the circumstances. “I’m gonna hit the greens.”

Giancarlo snorts, because, “You’re no better than Ralf.”

“Maybe,” Johnny says, teeth clenched and eyelid twitching, “I’ll hit _you_ instead.”

“Ah, watch your temper Johnny,” Giancarlo reminds him. Riling Johnny up is just too easy – especially when he’s already in a bad mood – not to mention it usually serves to get Giancarlo’s mind off of things, which he’d appreciate right now.

“Giancarlo. Please don’t antagonize him. Today’s been long enough already.”

Leave it to Ralf to ruin all the fun. He even glances up from his reading to give Giancarlo a pointed look, which is enough to convince him to stand down. It’s not worth it today.

Instead, Giancarlo turns away. “What about you, Olivier?”

There’s a melancholy sigh, and Olivier answers while gazing out the window at passing scenery. “I am going to bake something to drown my sorrows in, I think.”

“Wow. Way to lighten the mood.”

He gets a real, honest-to-goodness scowl for that remark, and offers a charming, dimpled smile in return. All that earns him is a twitching brow that’s an odd sort of mirror to Johnny’s eyelid earlier.

“We did lose, Giancarlo – you do recall that, right?” Olivier lets his carefully controlled mood slip, just a little, to reveal real feelings underneath. “In our official re-debut as a proper team, and to a bunch of nobodies, no less.”

“Olivier is right.” Ralf is back to staring down at his book, but he isn’t fooling anyone, considering he hasn’t turned a page in five minutes.

Giancarlo lets out a short sigh. Seems everyone is working against him today. “Yeah, y’know, I’ve actually been trying to forget that.”

“You shouldn’t. This is a loss we can learn from, just as our match with the BBA team two years ago. Bitter as it tastes,” and here, Ralf really does make a face like he’s eating something gross, “we were beaten.” There’s a moment of hesitation before he finishes off with: “We’ll just have to be better next time.”

“Blah _blah_ ,” Johnny says, managing to perfectly articulate everything Giancarlo can’t bring himself to say. “We should’a won and you know it.”

Ralf finally gives up the pretense of reading, snapping his book shut and setting it off to the side with a sigh. “Giancarlo,” he says, “what’s the first thing _you’re_ going to do when you get home?”

So that’s a bit of a red flag, if Giancarlo is being honest. Ralf bothering to make small talk means there’s something important on his mind that he’ll only discuss when he’s good and ready. Which in _this case_ most likely means he agrees with Johnny, but is waiting to gather more evidence before making a formal statement.

Curious though he is, Giancarlo will give him his out for now.

“Dunno,” he answers, and offers a lopsided grin that he knows is charming, “I was gonna tag along with one of you guys, but since you’ll all be busy _moping_ …maybe I’ll call up the girls instead.”

Olivier rolls his eyes, which is fun, because he never does so in public. “Come home with me, Gian, you can help in the kitchen.”

Flopping over until he’s lying down on one of the bench-like seats, Johnny snorts out a laugh. “Do you _want_ your house burnt down?”

“That was _one_ time,” Giancarlo protests, holding up a single finger for emphasis, “and it was only a small fire!”

“I’ll supervise. Gian is proficient when he wants to be.”

That kind of reassurance and support is why Giancarlo will gladly consider Olivier his favorite teammate.

“Yeah, at licking the spoons, maybe.”

And _that_ remark is why Johnny will always be his _least_ favorite. It even gets a small smile out of Ralf, for crying out loud! Olivier looks amused, too, but at least he’s trying to hide it behind his hand.

“You guys are the worst – I don’t know why I hang out with you.”

-

“Could you find the mauve for me?”

“Uh…” Giancarlo stands flabbergasted in front of a veritable wall of paints. They’re arranged by color, of course, but that doesn’t make it any easier when there’re hundreds of them. “One sec.”

Olivier’s studio is light and airy, especially so today with the large windows thrown open and a breeze circulating. Olivier himself is situated next to one of the windows, easel set up so as to best catch the light, and a couple of reference photos of the view of last night’s sunset next to him.

“This sunset would be perfect with it, I think. It’s somewhere between the pinks and the purples….”

“You have like, a million of those.”

“Gian.” Olivier’s tone perfectly conveys a sense of ‘do you really want _me_ to stop what _I’m_ doing to solve my _own_ problem’ in that way that only he can.

It makes Giancarlo smile, even as he continues to browse paint labels. “Got it,” he says when he finally spots the elusive color. He brings it over to Olivier, and at his expectant look, squeezes a bit out onto his pallet for him.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

There’s silence for a long moment as Olivier continues to chip away at his painting, glancing from his canvas, to the reference photos, and out the window for the view in real time. Once in a while he’ll blow a strand of hair out of his face, and Giancarlo picks at the extra hair tie around his wrist whenever he does.

“Wouldn’t you rather be home right now, instead of helping me?” Olivier asks, tossing a look over his shoulder at Giancarlo that he disguises as tossing his hair.

Giancarlo makes a negative noise. “The only thing worth going home for is the coffee,” he says, only realizing how little of an exaggeration that is now that he stops to think about it.

Scoffing in a way that’s entirely fake (judging by the amused smile on his face), Olivier goes back to his art. “You lead a sad, empty existence.”

“Oh definitely,” Giancarlo says. “That’s why I’ve been here the past four days, helping you with all your _endless_ hobbies.”

“I lead a very fast-paced lifestyle.” Olivier pauses to release a puff of air from his mouth, but that one stubborn piece of hair falls right back into place over his eyes. “Would you –?”

“Got it.” Moving into place behind Olivier, Giancarlo runs his fingers through green hair, gathering it up into a short ponytail. He makes sure it’s sufficiently out of Olivier’s face before tying it off with the hair band from his wrist. “Better?”

“Yes.”

Giancarlo grins as he returns to his previous position, watching Olivier work.

This is where Olivier feels at home – up in this airy studio, or in his vast kitchen, or in his mother’s greenhouse – or even just strolling the streets of Paris. It must be nice, he thinks, to be so at ease. Giancarlo’s pretty sure Olivier has rubbed off on him after all these years, because by now, Paris feels more welcoming than Rome by far.

-

“Get out of my house, Giancarlo.”

That sentence is all it takes for Giancarlo to know he’s more than welcome. He grins, letting himself into Johnny’s room so as to properly make himself at home. “But Johnny, you’d be lonely if I left.”

“No,” Johnny says, tugging off his tank top to replace it with what looks suspiciously like a hooded sweatshirt with the sleeves torn off, “I’d be _alone_. It’d be _peaceful_.”

Giancarlo takes that as permission to recline on Johnny’s bed, watching as he rifles through his closet. “Nah, you’d be bored.”

Notably, Johnny doesn’t bother to deny this one – Giancarlo knows that _he_ knows that _Giancarlo_ knows that Johnny is a defensive grump who’s too busy being barbed to admit when he wants company. There’s no real point pretending anymore beyond a token protest, and Giancarlo is more than happy to be the social butterfly here.

“It’s barely nine, I just woke up – go back to Italy, will you?” Johnny’s voice is monotone and muffled by clothes and definitely _not_ angry enough to convince Giancarlo to leave.

“I was in Paris, actually.”

Giving up on his closet, Johnny swaps to digging through an ancient-looking dresser with drawers that make an ugly scraping noise as he opens them. “So Olivier finally got tired of you pretending to flirt with all the naked statues in his private art galleries, then?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you?” Giancarlo says with an easy smile. Really, he _could_ have stayed with Olivier for the remainder of their time off – but he can only handle bustling restaurant kitchens for so long, and Johnny’s company always makes for great entertainment. There’s a sort of laidback atmosphere here that Giancarlo has trouble finding elsewhere.

Johnny rolls his eyes, busy pulling on a pair of jeans he’d grabbed from the dresser. “And what makes you think _I’d_ wanna see _you_? We’re all meeting at Ralf’s tomorrow, anyway,” he says.

“Alright, but what are we doing today?” Giancarlo asks, sitting up for a better view of Johnny’s exasperation.

He isn’t disappointed, and is rewarded with Johnny tying the knot of his bandana just a little too tightly in annoyance. “Well _I’m_ golfing, as for _you_ –”

“Sounds terrific!” Giancarlo launches himself off of Johnny’s bed, injecting what he knows is an obnoxious amount of spring into his step as he bounces over to the bedroom door. “Let’s get going then.”

There’s an impressive frown on Johnny’s face, but he exits the room right on Giancarlo’s heels. “Are you ever gonna stop showing up uninvited?”

“But you never invite me,” Giancarlo pouts.

“I wonder why that is….”

Spinning around so he’s facing Johnny, Giancarlo puts a finger to his chin in a show of mock consideration as he walks backwards down the hall. “Maybe if you beat me at golf, we can work something out.”

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game there, Tornatore.”

Really, Giancarlo should’ve paid more heed to the way Johnny’s eyes had narrowed and his mouth had flipped into a challenging grin. File that under lessons he should’ve learned by now.

“Can’t we play tennis instead?” Giancarlo whines later, when they’re out on the greens. He’s stuck in a sand trap, currently.

“We’re only at the fifth hole,” Johnny says, and he looks far too pleased with himself, one of his golf clubs held casually over his shoulders. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out now?”

“Tennis is way better than this boring old sport.”

“You’re only calling it boring because you suck at it. Besides, you know I’d just kick your ass at that, too.” The grin on Johnny’s face is downright wolfish as he stands there and just watches Giancarlo attempt to free himself from the sand. “You don’t like it, you can go to your own damn house for once.”

The only way left to seek proper revenge for those comments, Giancarlo thinks, is to come up with the sappiest thing he can think of in response. Normal arguments will do no good. He’s taken his turn, though, and watches as Johnny sets up with perfect form.

There’s a potentially embarrassing thought lingering at the front of his mind, and it’s as good as any to turn into ammunition, so he opens his mouth and lets it fall out.

“But Johnny,” he says when Johnny’s lined up his shot, “my home is wherever you are.”

As predicted, Johnny’s arms go all wonky and tense, and the golf ball shoots off somewhere too far to the right. “Fuck you, Giancarlo!”

Giancarlo just laughs, and tries to ignore the tiny voice in his brain intent on pointing out that he steeped that taunt in truth.

-

“You’re early,” Ralf says, seated behind his antique desk. There’s _another_ old book, his laptop, and a handful of official-looking papers spread out in front of him.

“Just couldn’t stay away,” Giancarlo says with a wink. He waltzes into the office, plopping himself into one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs that sits opposite the desk.

“Hm.” Ralf, of course, isn’t convinced. Nor does he rise to the banter. “Did Johnny kick you out?”

“Why does everyone assume – wait, how’d you know I was with Johnny?”

“He told me,” Ralf says, flipping a page in his book. After scanning over it briefly, he sets the old thing aside and reaches for the papers instead.  

Now _that_ puts a smile on Giancarlo’s face. Typical Johnny, complaining to the captain. “Oh, so that’s who he was texting.”

Ralf makes an affirmative humming noise. He frowns at something on one of the papers, and then swaps to his laptop, clicking around a bit before beginning to type furiously. “My condolences for your loss at golf, by the way.”

“Johnny’s a sore winner,” Giancarlo says, but he can’t even pretend to frown.

“ _Very_ much unlike yourself.”

“You know me so well!” Standing up just long enough to turn his chair to the right a bit, Giancarlo sits back down and props his feet up on the seat next to his.

Ralf sighs, and his typing pauses. “Shoes off of the furniture, please.”

Snickering, Giancarlo does as he’s told, slipping his shoes off before putting his socked feet up again.

Whatever he’s doing, Ralf seems pretty occupied by it, and somehow just watching him makes Giancarlo feel tired. He’s awfully busy for a teenager – then again, he always has been. Giancarlo would probably die if someone forced him to sit in a stuffy study like this all day.

“Don’t you ever get bored?” he wonders after several minutes of silence.

“You’re never quiet long enough to let me,” Ralf says, in what’s probably meant as a subtle admonishment. Except it falls flat of getting Giancarlo to shut up, given that his tone is way too lighthearted.

Waving his complaint off, Giancarlo says, “No, I mean in general.”

“Not really.”

“You’re so weird.”

Ralf doesn’t dignify that with a response, not even a sarcastic ‘thank you’, so his busywork _must_ be pretty important. If he’s this dead set on working, Giancarlo supposes he better not distract him too much. Being on the captain’s bad side the day that team practice resumes isn’t the best idea, after all.

Surrounded by portraits of Ralf’s dead relatives, and shelves of books with titles in too many languages to count, Giancarlo _still_ expects the silence to be uncomfortable or stifling - even after these past few years of being teammates - and is _still_ surprised when it’s relaxing instead.

It’s…nice. With Ralf, Giancarlo never feels pressured into making small talk – if only because Ralf never lets himself be dragged into interactions he doesn’t want. That he can be at peace with someone like _Ralf_ while doing nothing is still unusual, and he’s not sure how to feel about that.

So he does the proper thing and ruins it, deciding he might as well distract Ralf after all.

“Can’t we like, play chess or something?”

Ralf sighs, long and slow and obviously exaggerated, like he’s been shouldered with some great burden. “I _suppose_ ,” he says at last, “just let me finish this email….”

Twenty minutes later finds them in Ralf’s favorite sitting room, facing each other over his favorite chess table. There isn’t a piece of furniture in the room newer than (at _least_ ) a hundred years old, and Ralf looks right at home among it all.

“So what was with all that paperwork earlier?” Giancarlo asks, curiosity getting the better of him as he tips his chair back and watches Ralf survey the chessboard. “You don’t have _that_ big a hand in your parents’ company yet, do you?”

Ralf is busy frowning down at the chess pieces, and takes a good while to respond. “I do some work for them on occasion, but today’s was beyblade oriented.” He finally makes a move, and then his eyes flick up to Giancarlo. “And as I’ve told you before: please sit like a normal person. These chairs are –”

“‘Passed down through generations’?”

“ _Yes_.”

With a laugh, Giancarlo settles his precious antique chair back onto all four legs. He takes a glance over the chessboard, figures maybe that one knight of his could do better over there, moves it, and then goes back to relaxing.

The frown on Ralf’s face intensifies, deepening the crease between his brows further. “How you can put such little thought into this without being terrible is beyond me.”

That’s Ralf-speak for ‘I’m losing right now but don’t want to admit it’ and Giancarlo allows his charming grin to slip into shit-eating territory. “Beginner’s luck.”

Ralf raises an eyebrow at him – or, well, where an eyebrow would be if he had any. “We’ve been playing together for months now,” he says, “you’re anything but a beginner.”

“All these compliments are going to make me blush, Ralf,” Giancarlo says, fluttering his lashes in a way that usually has people blushing.

Ralf, however, seems as unimpressed as usual. “Do be quiet and let me concentrate.”

In the mood to be polite, Giancarlo complies. As soon as Ralf’s made his move, though, he figures talking is fair game again.

“So what do you mean by ‘beyblade oriented’?” he asks, because he’s still genuinely curious and Ralf is vague at the best times. “I thought the season was over for us.”

“I’ve been looking into Barthez’s team,” Ralf says, crossing his arms and actually letting his ramrod straight posture relax a little. “I get the feeling they’re not legitimate – our ‘blades took too much damage from too little contact. And there’s also scheduling for next year's tournament to think about, never mind that we could use a new training regimen....”

Oh, so Ralf is investigating Barthez Battalion, after all? That’s reassuring. Giancarlo’s glad he’s not the only one still fuming over that particular defeat. “Scheduling for the next tournament already..?” he asks with a tone that’s not entirely a question. It seems awfully presumptuous is all, even for Ralf.

“We’ll discuss it more when the others get here,” Ralf says. “Until then, I believe it’s your turn.”

-

“So this is where ya ran off to….”

Giancarlo turns in his seat, his grin growing as he catches sight of their remaining two teammates entering the room. They’ve come in without being escorted by the butler, he notices, and wonders when everyone else adopted his ‘just show up’ habits.

“Miss me, Johnny?” he asks, though he knows the answer he’ll get.

Johnny snorts, and doesn’t disappoint. “Hardly.”

“Who’s winning?” Olivier asks as he crosses the room. He stops behind Giancarlo’s chair to rest one graceful hand on the back of it, leaning against it in a way that would come across as uncouth if it were anyone else.

“I am,” Ralf announces, predictably proud of himself despite the fact that he _always_ wins.

Of course, Giancarlo can’t let that stand. “But I did beat him once.”

“We played to a stalemate, Giancarlo,” Ralf says. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s better than Johnny ever does, though!”

“True,” Ralf acquiesces.

“Stuff it,” Johnny growls as he throws himself down onto his usual couch in the corner.

“Shoes off the furniture,” Ralf says without looking up from the game.

Johnny responds by kicking his shoes off into a pile on the floor, and then settling his heels right back down on an expensive armrest.  “Are we gonna get this meeting under way anytime soon?”

“In a moment,” Ralf says, “just let me…ah, there.” He moves a chess piece, face full of haughty confidence.

Giancarlo gives the board a once over before responding, and he only realizes his mistake when he hears Olivier tutting behind him.

“Checkmate,” Ralf says, after making the final move. “And here I thought you were getting better.”

From his spot all the way on the other side of the room, Johnny offers his own useless commentary, as usual: “Giancarlo doesn’t have a long enough attention span for that.”

“Wow, yours must be even shorter than mine, then,” Giancarlo fires back, because really, Johnny walked right into that one.

“It’s so sad,” Olivier says, patting Giancarlo’s head in a show of solidarity and agreement.

“If you two are gonna gang up on me, then –”

Clearing his throat, Ralf stands. Whatever it is that qualified him to be captain (never mind that it was mainly his own decision) draws the room’s attention, and even Johnny’s argument dies down to a faint grumble.

“Shall we continue this somewhere more comfortable? I can have tea prepared.”

They file out of the room, then, ending up in what’s probably the closest thing this castle has to a family room – the couches here are five times as soft as everywhere else. (Giancarlo knows, because he’s tried them all and complained until their customary team meeting place was sufficiently comfy.)

“We have repairs to discuss,” Ralf says once they’re settled, all picture perfect posture as he sits in an overstuffed armchair, “as well as plans for next season.”

“Isn’t it a bit early to be thinking about next year?” Olivier asks, sipping on his tea. “This year’s championship has barely started.”

“I believe it’s imperative that we secure our place as soon as possible. It’s unfortunate that we have already been outclassed to the point of not even qualifying to represent Europe.”

That, Giancarlo knows, means that Ralf is _worried_ about their recent lack of success. By Olivier’s furrowed brow and the way Johnny’s heels tap against the floor, Giancarlo knows they can see it, too. The silence that follows is the most awkward they’ve had in years.

“Well,” Giancarlo says, eventually, seeing as it’s his self-appointed job to diffuse all awkward silences, “it’s like you said last week: we’ll just have to work harder, right?” He kind of wants to bite his tongue afterwards, even if words of encouragement don’t feel as forced as they used to.

“Indeed,” Ralf says. There’s something in his eyes that might be pride, and it makes it difficult for Giancarlo to look at him.

“Hard work can only get you so far though,” Johnny points out, “just look at your golf and tennis records….”

Leave it to Johnny to renew the proper individualistic mood.

“I _know_ ,” Giancarlo says on a gasp, “and just look at your _chess_ records..!”

“Why you –”

“You’re both dreadful cooks,” Olivier interjects, singlehandedly diffusing half of the tension. “So I’d say you’re just as bad as each other.”

“But we have you to take care of us in that department, Olivier,” Giancarlo reminds him.

Olivier heaves a longsuffering sigh. “It’s rough being the backbone of this family.”

“Thank you for your noble sacrifice,” Ralf cracks what might be a real actual joke, looking one part amused and two parts bothered that their meeting has been thoroughly derailed.

In the end, it’s the family comparison that does it. Behind his wide grin and between laughs, Giancarlo suddenly realizes that maybe _this_ is what home is for him. Because it was obviously never his own empty mansion - it's not even Paris, as it turns out. So…not the place, but the people.

That’s a thing people say, right? He never really bothered to think about what it meant until recently.

…He’s not about to admit that discovery out loud, of course.

But the fact remains.

**Author's Note:**

> …I haven’t posted Majestics fanfic since February of 2010. It’s nice to finally be back after all this time, even if I am nervous, haha. This fic is loaded with years of headcanon buildup centered around the dub, so I’m super sorry if it’s OOC bc of that….
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
